Ghost Roads
by Llewlyn
Summary: Sequel to 'With This Ring.'  Accepting help from a poltergeist is probably ill advised in any situation, but involve possession, haunted basements, desecrated graveyards, and shrimp fried rice, and things become a little more... complicated.
1. Murder By Spoon

**AN:** Sequel to "With This Ring", set about two months after the first story ends.I just thought you all should know that when i began this, i clicked over to my stats page, trying to decide which story i wanted this to be a sequel of, and the hit count on 'Ring' was at 666. Not kidding. This is partially developed off a plea by Wanda for me to write a continuation rather than a new story, and partially from the great fun of researching documented ghost stories. So here is the start of it-- i hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter One: Murder by Spoon**

"I quit." Lydia scowled at herself in the mirror. "No, really. I quit." She tried again. "You can't fire me. I quit."

"I like it when you said, 'Kiss my ass' first. Gets me all hot an' bothered. "

"Beej! Dammit!" Lydia threw down the lipstick she was brandishing and stood up, furiously turning her back on the grinning poltergeist that had taken up an annoyingly persistent residence in her mirror. She put her hands on her hips and smoothed over the slightly wrinkled rayon fabric of the jacket she was wearing, trying to hide her embarrassment. "I can't even use my own _mirrors_. I hate it when you spy on me."

Choosing to ignore her poor attempt at distraction, Beetlejuice slipped out of her mirror and floated up to the ceiling, never completely solidifying just in case she was in a mood for physical violence. "So why don't you just quit, already, Lyds? I don't get it. You hate your job; life's too short! I mean, not that watchin' you have these repetitive monologs with the mirror ain't interestin', but—"

"But _nothing_, Beetlejuice. Beetlejuicebeetlejuicebeetlejuicebeetlejuice! Dammit!" She threw down her hands in total exasperation at the smug poltergeist as he drifted lazily down to her bed and settled comfortably against the wrinkled sheets.

"Ah, Lydia. I love it when you say my name. Your dulcet tones give it such a delightful—"

"Maybe if I soaked everything with holy water… hung crosses, hired a priest…"

Beetlejuice sat up with a frown. "Hey, don't even _joke_ about that, girlchild. I mean, not like it would _work_, but still. It's like me talkin' about how I'm gonna murder you with a spoon. Too creepy." He fixed her with a serious look until she rolled her eyes and relented, collapsing on the bed beside him. Her hand fell through his chest with an icy splash, and they both twitched.

"You're going to murder me with a spoon?" She turned to eye him curiously. "Is that the best you can do, Beej?"

He shrugged carelessly. "Short notice. I don't spend all my time devisin' ways to get rid of _you_." The last word was a carefully aimed accusation, and it hit home. She sighed.

"I don't spend _all_ my time like that, Beej."

"What, ninety percent?"

"Eighty-five." But she was smiling now, and he could hear the mischief in her voice.

"We quarrelin' over five percent? Maybe you should be a bean counter." He raised an eyebrow with a grin. "Or a lawyer…"

"I don't know what I should be, tell you the truth." She rolled over and curled up, her back icy where she crossed into his space. He carefully solidified, making certain she was clear of him, and reached out to stroke her hair. She jumped at his cool touch, and then relaxed back into him. "I only know what I _don't_ want to be."

"What's that?" His voice was gruff, and close. Their casual intimacy had remained just that—casual. He had never attempted to kiss her after that first terrible encounter, although he did stare at her quite a bit. And since she couldn't keep him out, she was glad at least that he had respected her choices. So far.

"Besides Rememberer of your true name? Possessor of your soul residue?"

"Geez, you make it sound like somethin' you'd scrape out of a bathtub! This is a very beautiful connection we have, Lyds." He sounded a little hurt, but she could never tell for certain if he was playing her. Nearly two months had passed since Clara had wrecked her apartment, and he had been able to come and go as he pleased. Come more than go. Way more. And though she had spent a great deal of time, willingly and unwillingly, in his presence, she had to admit that she still couldn't read him very well.

And now, in a job where she had to go to an office every day dressed in plain suit clothes and answer phones and file papers and make the damn coffee, she wasn't certain if she had read herself right, either. But money was harder to come by, and she refused to ask her parents for help. They thought she was old enough to be on her own. And they were right. But it had taken a long time to refurnish her apartment, especially since the landlady had blamed her for starting the fire on her bed and wouldn't pay for a cent of the damage herself.

That would have been because Beetlejuice had left a cigarette butt behind in his first hasty escape from her ire.

Not that he hadn't helped. She had no idea where her things had gone, but he had just gathered up every broken shard and fleck of dust in one massive magnetically charged sweep and shoved it through her mirror. How he had fit the bed she had absolutely no idea. The computer she had managed to save by letting it dry for a week, but the monitor had to be replaced. Her cameras… she almost wept at the thought. The lenses and mirrors in her SLR's had all been shattered to dust. The Nikon F2 was fairly easy to find in a secondhand camera store, if pricey, but her Hasselblad 1000 was nigh irreplaceable, especially the Zeiss lens. And the Leica R4… she supposed she could replace the camera, except that it had belonged to her mother. She closed her eyes. "I need options."

"You need a vacation."

She shifted on the bed so that she was facing him. This close, she could see the laugh lines at the corners of his deep-set jade eyes and the milky sheen of his skin. Not that he actually had skin, though he certainly had a body, and that body had a surface. A smooth, cool, silky surface, her fingers remembered. And he had become a much better dresser in the time that she had spent with him, as she protested the dust and tatters with sneezes and watery eyes. She remembered when she had accidentally discovered that during a haunting he customarily stuffed a ratty pillow down his pants and buttoned his shirt over it, because he thought it made him look 'more threatening." She had laughed herself to tears that night. The pillow had not made a return appearance.

Now he was dressed in a simple black linen buttondown, mandarin collar and rolled cuffs, and faded jeans, and his much beloved boots. He rested his head on his arm, and his other hand was a soft weight on her waist. Her mind cast back to that horrible wedding tux and she smiled in spite of herself. He just cocked an eyebrow at her in question.

"I like that shirt, Beej."

"You were laughin' because you like it?" His voice was uncertain, but his eyes were amused, crinkled at the corner.

She shook her head, still grinning. "I just remember how you used to dress…" Giggles threatened to overtake her then. He gave her half of a grin and deliberately eyed her cheap rayon suit.

"Glass houses, Lyds." She looked mildly outraged at his insinuation, and frowned down at her clothes. And then the giggles took over.

"Gods, Beej, I don't care if I never work another day—I am getting out of this job! _And_ these clothes…"

"I can help with that!" He looked a little too enthusiastic.

"I can manage," she said dryly. He didn't even attempt to hide his disappointment. She pulled away from him, and he let her go, reluctantly. "I'm gonna change first, so I can't chicken out when I get there."

"Do you even need to go? Just get on the horn, girl."

"Beej, my stuff is there."

"Hello?" He waved his pale hand. "Poltergeist? I'll take care of all that, Lyds." He attempted a sincere look. She wavered.

"I dunno, Beej. I feel like this is something I should do in person. Kind of an honor thing."

"Honer schmonner. I'm just pickin' up your stuff. Hell, I could take you there after hours, if you really want." She narrowed her eyes at him, and sat back down on the bed.

"What do you mean?" He grinned toothily at her and casually brushed some lint from his shirt.

"I mean, I could take you there."

"How?" She felt herself taking the bait, but she couldn't keep down her curiosity.

"Ghost roads. Remember me tellin' you about ley lines a few weeks back?" She nodded.

"But I thought you actually had to be a ghost to use a ley line?"

He cocked his head at her, as if he were quizzing a particularly dense child. And enjoying it. "Sure. Or you have to travel with one."

Interested despite herself, she settled back down on the bed. "Where, exactly, could we go, theoretically?"

He glanced at her lips before he looked at her eyes. "Theoretically, anywhere you wanted."

She gave him a knowing smile, now. "What's the catch?" His brow wrinkled.

"Why do you always assume there's a catch?"

"Because it's you." She appraised him coolly, and he had to grin again.

"Well, actually, now that you mention it, there is one tiny, insignificant thing."

If he said insignificant, he meant exactly the opposite. She took a deep breath, and raised both eyebrows, inviting him to continue.

"If I tried to hold on to you, I might lose you. That would be bad. So' you'd have to let me drive." He was laughing behind those green eyes now. She felt inexorably drawn on to the conclusion, but didn't understand where she was being led.

"Drive what?"

He stroked a finger down her cheek in a gesture of unmistakable intimacy, and she recoiled slightly out of habit, though his touch was gentle.

"You'd have to let me possess you, babe."


	2. Nightmares

**Chapter Two: Nightmares**

Lydia jumped back so fast that she almost toppled off the edge of the bed, and it was only his quick hands that saved her, and even at that he nearly went over the edge himself. She tugged herself away from him and stood shakily. "Not in a million years, Beetlejuice! That's… that's…" She sputtered, at a loss.

He was glad to fill in for her. "Deliciously intimate? Incredibly thrilling? A once in a lifetime chance?

"Disgusting! Yuck! No way!" She tugged off her jacket and threw it in the corner with as much violence as one could throw a coat with, and then began unbuttoning her shirt as she walked toward the closet. Since she couldn't send him back, she had gotten accustomed to changing in front of him At first it had bothered her, but she got wise to the fact that even if he wasn't watching, he was watching. She hoped he would get bored, but it hadn't happened yet. He still stared at her with keen interest; whether she was changing her shoes or her shorts, it didn't matter.

"Disgusting? Hey, now, that hurts my feelings, Lyds. No need to get nasty." He crossed both arms over his chest and stared sulkily at the ceiling. She rolled her eyes at him.

"Beej, I went through the whole possession thing with your ex-girlfriend, remember? It was awful. I was stuffed in a little corner of my own mind, and I couldn't move or speak or scream. It was horrible." Her fingers fumbled on the buttons, and she realized she was shaking. Deep breath. It had truly been one of the worst moments of her life, being trapped inside her own body with Clara at the wheel. She still had frequent nightmares about it. In fact, she had woken more than once to Beetlejuice's calming, rocking embrace, and she never regretted his presence after those nightmares. He noticed her silence, and sat up, ready to go to her, but she turned to him and attempted a weak smile.

"Lyds," he began gruffly, and then chewed at his bottom lip pensively. "What Clara did was rape. It was a violation, without permission or decency. I hope you know I would never…" He fell silent, on new and treacherous ground with her. He was her court jester, somedays, and occasionally her protector. But counselor? Definitely not his thing.

She saved him from having to say anything else with a soft hand on his wild blond head. "I know. I just… I can't do that." She sat calmly next to him and steadied herself, and finished unbuttoning her shirt, but for once he wasn't watching.

"It wouldn't be like that, Lydia. In fact, you can kick me out at any time. But I would never shove you in a corner. I'd want you with me." It seemed to be dangerous confession day. She turned to look at him, and his jade eyes were focused intently on his boots. Her hand found his, and she squeezed.

"So how would I kick you out?" He peered up at her in surprise, and covered her hand with his other. She was the one staring intently at his boots now.

"Just say the word." His voice was gentle and low, just a vibration against her ear. He was still hanging on to her hand, and she swallowed, feeling just like she had right before he had kissed her that very first time, except that he had surprised her then, and now her heart was thundering in her breast, and her mouth was dry.

"What's the word?" Her voice trembled, just a little.

"Floccinaucinihilipilification."

Her eyes widened. "_What_?" Beetlejuice burst into giggles and fell back on the bed. Lydia, surprised into incredulous laughter, took a swing at his thigh, and her hand felt a satisfactorily solid impact. He just laughed harder.

"Oh, Lyds! You should have seen your _face_!" His voice was choked out with maniacal cackles, and Lydia threw herself over him, pummeling whatever she could reach, as tears of laughter poured down his cheeks. He gripped her arms to fend off her fists, and she tugged them out of his grasp, only then realizing that her shirt was open. She flounced off the bed and huffed over to the closet, pulled out the first t-shirt she could lay her hands on, and changed into it. He was still wheezing on the bed when she turned back around, unable to keep her face stern.

"Beej, you're terrible." She fell against him, her ribs aching until she couldn't suppress the giggles anymore.

"You love me. Admit it." His voice held no depth at all, but she knew better than to believe that he was just joking around. Beetlejuice never joked with either love or food.

"When you admit I'm always right." He grinned at her, and she smiled back at him. Suddenly, her fears of a few minutes seemed to loom less. Which is certainly what he had intended. But for now, she would let him get away with it.


	3. Possessive

**AN: **This is something new for me-- it was written entirely from BJ's point of view. Please let me know what you think!

**ST: **Written to William Orbit's _Barber's Adagio for Strings_. Simply the loveliest music I have heard in a very very long time.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Possessive**

"Okay. Say I agree to this. How do we do it?"

He sat up and made a great show of cracking his knuckles. "Slow an' steady, girlchild."

They sat cross-legged, facing each other, her right hand over his left, and his right hand over her left. He couldn't help but grin at her nervousness. She, who had faced down the scariest ghost he had ever dated with nothing but her charm and completely made-up story about random tarot cards that he had only offered up because they had happened to be in his pocket. Not that he would ever tell her the truth. Some things you just should never have to know. Or in this case, he didn't want her freakin' out all over the place. Bad enough she was so jumpy to flinch at every touch. He wanted to grab her and hold her till she warmed in his hands… he drew himself back to the reality. No use thinking about what would never happen. That, she had made abundantly, painfully clear. On multiple occasions.

"Earth to Beetlejuice?" She was looking at him, eyebrow's raised in that impertinent, dry way she had. Her hands tightened on his very slightly. He tried to gather his imploded thoughts… what was he doing? Ah. Possession. Right.

"Nervous, Lyds?" Smooth. Put it back on the girl. She bought it, shaking her head defensively. She must really be, to be denying it so frequently.

"Just don't have all day, Beej." He flashed her a charming grin. At least, he had always thought of it as his charming grin, until he met her. But she just tilted her head, her eyes betraying her impatience.

"Fine. Close your eyes." Infuriating girl. He could feel her edges even now, radiating out beyond her body, even though breathers didn't usually go that far. She had always been like that—it was part of what enabled her to see him. She closed her eyes reluctantly, and her edges brightened a lumen or twelve. Always looking out in the dark, Lydia. She was indeed a beauty, though her namesake was long gone, passed away with the Persian conquest before the beginning of time. He reached out spirit-wise, gathering her up. It was something like holding an armful of fragrant flowers, with the blossoms spilling out in every direction, and such care as he had to take so as not to crush any of the stems. She trembled slightly as he lifted her up, though it might have been the crackle of electricity in the air. Hard to tell. As it was, he could barely think, so full of her.

Had she known it would be like this for him, she never would have agreed.

"Open your eyes, now. Steady." She did, and he felt the surge of surprise ride through her as she saw that they were four feet or so above the bed. And then she smiled at him, without anything but joy, and he was the one that trembled. Slightly. Hardly noticeable. Geez, his drinking buddies would be in hysterics by now, seeing him like this. He took the spiritual equivalent of a deep breath. This next part would be much more delicate. And if you chose five random words from the OED to describe him, karma would ensure that 'delicate' was not one of them.

"Okay. Nuff o'that, girlchild. Just party tricks. You ready for the real deal, now?" After a moment's hesitation, she nodded, and her fear surged through him, though her face was calm. This girl was one cool customer. He felt an upswell of admiration for her. And something that felt suspiciously like pride. He squeezed her thin fingers gently. And then he closed his own eyes. The fewer distractions, the better.

Possession was never the same twice. Though it wasn't his favorite thing to do, he had, on occasion, taken advantage of a quick spin in a breather just for kicks, and because it was damn funny to see them all shaky and puking afterwards. He had forgotten to mention that part to Lydia. Maybe she would keep her stomach. She had with Clara, and Clara had been none too gentle with her.

But to be honest with himself, he had never felt anything near what he felt for Lydia during any type of possession, not to mention she had been the seat of his tattered soul for a few nervous hours. He had no idea what to expect. Would she be able to feel his most powerful emotions like he could feel hers? Gods, he hoped not. Though he had always been up front about his feelings for her, she had never taken him seriously. Didn't think he was capable of love. If she suddenly had that thrust upon her… no. Not a good thought. He spent a few careful moments trying to gather up random strands of emotion, and then it was time.

Especially with his eyes closed, he could feel the glow of her, shimmering next to him. Very gently, he did what he was always so careful not to do, and overlapped her. The thrumming heat of her body soaked into him, and suddenly he was immersed in heartbeat, in blood pumping, in the great deep breathing of her lungs. All of the thousand things that fell silent with death came alive again. It was a little overwhelming.

And then he felt her struggling for control, and eased off a little. He could hear her voice through her own ears, and it sounded different: more depth to it, and richer..

"I don't know about this, Beej." Light flooded in a huge sensory wash. "Hey, where'd you go? Beej?"

_Right here, babe._ He didn't steal her voice… it seemed wrong. Admittedly, he had done it once before. But this was different.

"Whoa! This is weird. I'm still floating!" Her voice hung between fear and fascination, and her heart was thundering.

_You like it?_

"I don't know. It's weird, but I can hear you in my head. This is way different, Beej!"

_Told you. But then, I'm not a psychotic exorcism escapee, so that should tell ya somthin'. _

_Since when do I take your word for anything? _Ah, she was turning inside herself. It actually made him a little nervous, how quickly she was picking up on this. He gave the equivalent of a mental shrug, trying for non-committal. _Okay. I'm ready to have my body back now, Beej. _He heard his true name in a whisper behind it. _Gabriel_. It gave him little shivery chills. And it was also a request he couldn't deny her. With the same uncustomary gentleness that he had shown before, he slowly extricated himself from the achingly hot lifeblood that was his Lydia. The world fell silent again. And she smiled hesitantly at him.

"That wasn't so bad, Beej."

He could hardly gather his voice to answer. Finally, he managed a quiet, "No." She looked at him strangely, and he felt the tension between them building up in a feedback loop. He had to do something to break it, before she suspected. Before she guessed.

So he dropped her. Lex parsimoniae.

* * *

Floccinaucinihilipilification is pronounced… floss-in-now-sin-i-hill-i-pill-i-fi-**cay**-shun. Tho' there is some debate. It means 'the act of making something seem worthless.' 

Lex parsimoniae—the rule of simplicity

OED—Oxford English Dictionary. Big crazy long dictionary of every word in the English language that is in common use, or has been at some time in the past.


	4. Rhetorical

**AN: **I'm glad to see the IM system at least puttering along again—that was a long stretch of quiet. And sorry this took so long—I've had to be thoughtful, and sometimes that doesn't come easily. This is one of those balance things-- just so you know it's not just the boys that screw things up sometimes.

**ST: **Written to William Orbit's _Barber's Adagio for Strings_. Yes, still!

* * *

**Chapter Four: Rhetorical**

Lydia let out a little screech as she hit the bed, and when she looked up at him he was grinning again, that disconcerting uncertainty gone now. For a moment there… but no. Certainly not. She shook her head and scowled up at him.

"And here I was just going to tell you how surprised I was that you didn't act like an asshole…"

His lips twitched very slightly in what might have been annoyance. "Hey, I got a reputation here, girlchild."

"Oh, and so many people are watching this."

"You never know," he said with an enigmatic glance around the room, as he drifted down to settle beside her on her bed. He tilted his head back and gave her a piercing and thorough inspection, and she responded by lifting her chin defiantly. "So you nearly panicked on me there, Lyds. Any mental hang-ups or childhood trauma I need to know about? Any… sexual experiences with inexperienced young men…need to be rectified?" He gave her a look of extreme curiosity, and she made a face at him, her stomach rolling over at that last bit.

But something didn't feel quite right to her. "Beetlejuice, if I knew you well, I would say that something was bothering _you_ rather than the other way around. Why so touchy?" She reached out and plucked at his shirtsleeve, and he twitched away from her, and then belatedly scowled at his own reaction.

"Not _touchy_. Just concerned that in the middle of walkin' a line you're gonna freak and try to take control of your body back and, well…" He shrugged casually, his head dipping down even as his arms flapped up. "…that just wouldn't be good for either of us."

Despite his obvious misdirection away from his previous discomfort, she was curious. She pulled her legs up and propped her chin on her knees. "What would happen?"

"You ever driven with your eyes closed down the wrong side of the Autobahn?" His eyes got misty. "Ah, that was a good day." He was definitely in full distraction mode now, his jade eyes glinting with mischief as he cocked his head slightly at her, mimicking her posture.

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

He grinned. "Is _that_ a rhetorical question?" She lifted an expressive eyebrow at him, and he lifted two back at her. Another challenge. Another wall.

She flopped down on the bed, the weariness from the aftermath of his carefully executed possession coupled with their war of wills creeping up on her. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed that the possession had been so carefully done that, now that he was back in full Irritating Poltergeist mode, it seemed entirely out of character. It made her wonder if all this bluster was just a shield, but if so, what was he protecting himself from? He had been nice for less than a minute. Not exactly a world record. She eyed him speculatively. Well, maybe it was, for him. "Why is everything always a battle with you?"

"Does it bother you, Lyds?" Voice gone soft and rough around the edges, he lay down next to her, head propped on his hand, and eyed her hungrily. She smiled gently at him, and he lost a little of his leer, as if startled out of an act. Something was definitely bothering him.

"I just don't like fighting all the time, Beej. We've been through a lot. It's okay, every now and again, to not act like an asshole. That's all I'm saying."

"Yeah, but then you'd expect me to be nice all the time. Where's that get fun?"

"Hardly. But occasionally, just to remind me what a prick you usually are, you could be nice. Just for something to compare with."

He paused for a moment, and then peered back at her through close-lidded eyes. "You think I'm a prick?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

He scowled darkly and curled up a little defensively. "No need to get nasty, Lyds."

For a moment, she really looked at him. His knees were pulled up so high they were pressed against her thighs, and his arms were crossed over his chest. Classic self-protecting posture, obvious even if she had never taken psychology class in school. His face was creased with frowns and his jade-colored eyes, which she always had thought were incongruously lovely in such a scoundrel's face, were focused on the middle distance between them. Which was not all that much, now that she realized. If she reached out just a few inches, she could have stroked his cheek and attempted to put him at ease, as he had done for her…

Suddenly she was flooded with remorse. Psychology 101. He had been gentle with her, for whatever reason, and she was still treating him like she always did. Something had changed in their dynamic, and to her uncomprehending surprise, it had been on his end.

"I'm sorry, Beetlejuice." And she crossed those few inches, and stroked the cool skin of his cheek. His eyes closed reflexively, making her feel, if possible, worse. "I'm a bitch sometimes."

"Is that a rhetorical statement?" he murmured, but with a quirk to his lips that indicated he was teasing her now. Her fingers traced softly over his high cheekbones and jaw, intimacy disregarded for a moment in curiosity. His skin was the color of white opals, and her fingers tingled with something that felt a little like static electricity—more of a hum of energy that jumped between his skin and hers. He was completely still under her touch, and she allowed her hand to trace under his chin and down the corded muscle of his neck, to cross the soft juncture at his shoulder, just where his shirt didn't cover.

And then she realized what she was doing, and she jerked her hand away, but not before a single thought bloomed in her mind, one that she had never allowed herself to think. Through all of this terror and then the annoyance of having him constantly under (or over) foot, she had never seen him respond so profoundly to her touch, simply because she had never touched him with anything but necessity in mind. As the implications processed like molasses through her mind, she realized that his eyes were open now, jewel green and solemn. As her slow thoughts caught up to her actions, she had time to realize that his eyes were the same iridescent green as the tiger beetles that invaded her stepmother's garden.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Why?" And as before, that single word conveyed a great deal more than what a syllable should be able to hold. He was not simply responding. He was asking. She swallowed, and her courage deserted her.

"I'm just tired. If we're going to do this tonight, I'll need some rest." She attempted a smile, but it faded a bit when she saw the disappointment in his eyes.

"Yeah. Well, okay. Sure. I got things to do anyway."

And he flickered and was gone, before she could prevent him. As if she would have known what to do with him. Lydia found herself curled tightly up now, and her jumbled thoughts were entirely too intimate and strange to examine too closely. She tried to sleep, and eventually she did, but both waking thoughts and dreams were invaded by uncertainly. Just what, exactly, had happened?


	5. The Break In

**AN: **Actually part one, but this was more thought than action. Next part, action! Thank you for your patience!

* * *

**Chapter Five: The Break-In**

When Lydia woke, her apartment was sunk into shadows, and she was alone. She had thought to wake and find him waiting, but his familiar shape was missing from her window seat, where he often gazed out the window for hours at a time. Funny, but she had never thought to ask him what he was looking at, always grateful that it wasn't her.

With a scowl, she climbed awkwardly off the bed and ran to the bathroom to grab a shower before he returned.

As the hot water washed over her, she had a flash of the time he had invaded her shower. Her mind remembered the unalloyed embarrassment, but her body remembered differently. How his touch seemed to lessen the pain of her scrapes and scars, and his careful, steady hold of her cut wrist. When she was hurt, he always took extra care with her, and then as soon as she recovered, it was back to abnormal. He certainly cared for her, in his way. And he had made no secret of his wolfish yen to be in her bed, however the hell _that_ was supposed to work, not that she ever _ever_ wanted to know. Still, there was that one kiss, his first kiss, that she tried to profoundly stamp out of her memory; especially the traitorous response of a body that was fooled into thinking he was real. He had certainly felt real…

And the water was now cold. Shit.

She dressed comfortably, uncertain what to wear for walking a ghost road under the influence of a deeply disturbed poltergeist. It was well after nine, and she was hungry and nervous, and didn't know whether to eat or to pace when she felt a cool breeze at her back, and the soft touch of his hands on her arms.

"Miss me?" he whispered gruffly in her ear. Chills trickled icily down her back, and she felt for a moment what it would be like to have Beetlejuice as an enemy. Not a pleasant thought.

"Yes. Immensly. I've been weeping." His fingers tightened on her shoulders with every word she spoke.

"Weeping?" His tone told her exactly what he thought of that, and it wasn't particularly flattering. She slid her hands up her arms and over his hands, cool and invisible in the darkness. His hands felt real. As did the rest of him, pressed lightly against her back.

"Copiously." She nodded for emphasis, but couldn't prevent herself from grinning just a little.

"Uh huh," he countered dubiously.

"It means, 'a lot'."

"I know what it means, girlchild." His voice was halfway between dangerous and teasing now, and she could hear his smile. Such a rare thing—she heard it even less often than she saw it. Beetlejuice almost never smiled. He smirked, and grinned his wicked, feral grin, and showed his teeth in anger or disgust, but genuine smiles were few and far between. Unable to resist the temptation of seeing it, she turned her head, trying to peer back at him, only to realize, too late, that his chin was resting on her shoulder. Her cheekbone bumped his nose, and he pulled instinctively back, and the moment was lost.

"Sorry." She looked down, a rueful grin on her lips. His hands slid down her arms and crossed around her waist, pulling her close against him, and for once, tangled in her confused thoughts, she didn't protest. It felt good to be close. She had frequently been this close to him, in the last two months. But she had never been this uncertain of her own thoughts on the matter before. How could one simple trial possession make things so complicated? And now she was gearing up for another.

His voice, a tickle in her ear, brought her back. "No need for sorry. You ready?"

"Not really. What should I expect?"

"Somethin' you gotta see. Can't explain it." She felt a rustle of fabric, and he brought a hood over her head. "Just don't let anyone see your face. Might be a bit hard to account for you bein' there."

"What?" Panic made her voice squeak, but she didn't care. "Hard to _account?_"

"Um. Yeah, forget I said that. Ready?" He sounded a bit rushed now.

"No! Not till you explain what you mean by 'hard to account for'!" She shook herself loose and twisted to turn to face him, and he only resisted a little. She only belatedly realized that she was still _that close_, and the cloak he had draped over her was a thin layer between them. Startled, she tried to step back, but he didn't loosen his hold. His eyes dropped lazily to her mouth, and that dark, feral grin surfaced like a monster from the deep.

"Hard." His voice was low enough to make her stomach thrum. She flushed hot, whether from embarrassment or something…else. He enjoyed her discomfort immensely for a moment, his eyes gleaming, and then continued. "Explaining your presence. You being a breather, an' all. Since you're not technically allowed in the Netherworld."

"Technically?" she managed, having to swallow first.

"Technically," he agreed. "But a few possessed have been known to walk the halls. Quietly. When no one is around to watch." He flavored his words with delighted menace, and she shivered. "So are you ready, or not?"

Lydia knew he was trying to intimidate her. And it was definitely working—her mind was a jumble. She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the vanished distance in between them, and all the disturbing thoughts that entailed. They were going traveling. It was an opportunity that she could not pass up, no matter how frightening or intimidating or whatever he was. She still knew his true name. That gave her the upper hand. Didn't it? Of course it did. She straightened her shoulders. "I'm ready." And just to remind him, "Gabriel."

He flinched. "I know you know it. No need to flaunt it. Lydia." And then he reached up and took her head in his hands, and pressed his cool forehead to hers. She closed her eyes on the darkness.

When she opened them again, she was back in the theater. On the large screen was her room, and a pale girl in the mirror, adjusting the hood so it covered her face. The mirror loomed larger, until all she could see were her own dark eyes, lit now with a manic glow that she could immediately identify as the gleam of her poltergeist.

"Just think about the place you work at, Lyds." His voice sounded like it was projected through surround sound. A pause. "You still with me?"

"Yeah." Her voice sounded shaky and flat. He had displaced her consciousness entirely this time, just like Clara had. She felt more than shaky; she felt like screaming. But she swallowed, and gripped the arms of the plush chair that wasn't real none of this was real he was in _her body_… breathe. Her eyes on the screen crinkled in laughter. He knew she could see. Bastard. She was going to beat the hell out of him when she next got the chance, poltergeist or no. She just needed a big enough stick.


	6. Corridor

**Chapter 6: Corridor**

Stepping through the mirror was like plunging through a waterfall, icy and thunderous. Although the sound and the sensation were intense, Lydia felt curiously disconnected, as if someone were vividly describing it to her as she sat in a velvet seat in her little theater. A small part of her knew that this was all impossible—that a portal meant for a wisp of smoke he had somehow forced wide enough to accommodate her human body. Perhaps the iciness was not the portal itself but the fantastic amount of energy that he wielded so effortlessly in her small hands.

Then she heard his voice, whiskey-soaked and rough around the edges, as if it were being piped in on the theater speakers. In Dolby surround. "Come closer, Lyds. I need you to help. Cuz, um… I don't actually know where we're goin'.

"What?" Stunned disbelief would not even begin to cover how she felt. "Beej, I though we were going to my work to pick up my stuff!"

"Yeah, but I don't know where you work."

"But… you said you were going to go by yourself!"

"Yeah, well I was bluffin'. C'mere, girlchild." He sounded a little exasperated now. She stood and walked closer to the front of the theater, fuming and wondering what the hell she had gotten herself into. At first it was just a simple proposition, and an exciting one—she had always wanted to see the Netherworld that Beej talked about so much. Now, knowing that she might be in terrible trouble just by being here, and then his less than inspiring admission that he didn't know where they were going, and she felt like throttling him. Even if it couldn't kill him, it would be very very satisfying.

The closer she came to the front of the theater, the more she felt like she was in her own body again. Her hands felt as if he was holding them, and the deep electrical warmth in her veins throbbed and twisted. It was possibly the oddest sensation she had ever felt, as if she were stepping into a form that was made to her exact shape and size, and if not for the fluttering buzz in her stomach like a million butterflies, she would have felt almost normal.

She wondered what it felt like for him. And then, with a second thought, she thought she would rather not know. So she opened her eyes.

They were in a dank smelling corridor, water dripping in runnels through heavy mossy growth that was clinging to the walls. _Walk, babe_… he whispered, and she did, hesitantly at first, her eyes on the uneven ground. A wet, moldy, but intricately patterned carpet stretched from wall to wall as far as she could see, and what looked like gas lamps were set into the wall at sporadic intervals, leaving them in near total darkness in some areas and too well lit for her liking in others. Skittering sounds echoed off the rough brick, and faded voices. She slipped her hands across her own arms, wishing she had something to hang on to besides herself.

"What is this place?"

_Um. Not exactly sure. It ain't like this for long. The leys always take character from what's been built upon 'em, but layers and layers of sacred and profane can give a place pretty strange character._

"This is a ley line?"

_Yep. Pretty thrillin', huh?_

"It's not exactly what I expected. I guess I thought it would be… shiny, or something. Not all gross and neglected."

They continued down the corridor, Beetlejuice content to be a passive burden within her for the moment. She had no thoughts to spare for the strangeness of it all. But as he had implied, their surroundings began to change. Fungus-slicked walls gave way to the smooth cool tile of what looked very much to Lydia like a blurry subway platform, but very old-fashioned, with delicate green glaze on the tiles and ornate shields marked with numbers. In fact, it looked very familiar indeed. "I've been here."

_The old Sherman Square control house. _And when he said that, the image snapped into focus.

"Holy crap! But… this looks new!"

_Time's kinda funny down here, Lyds. Ley lines remember things different. _

She puzzled over that as they walked past a post for apartments for sale in a building she knew no longer existed. "Ley lines have memories?"

_Can we talk about this later? Less need to be so chatty right now._ He sounded a bit nervous. She frowned, but had no one to frown at but her own shadow. She felt him sigh rather loudly. _Look—it's you who's walkin', so you're guidin' us. If you start thinkin' about some random place you think might be nifty to visit, there's no tellin' where we'll end up, an' some places are harder to get back from than others, babe._ That gave her chills, and she tried to focus on the place where she worked, and ignore everything else.

She smelled it first, the smell of a thousand million pages of paper, ancient ink and modern, leather and wool and dust. She felt him stirring inside her, a cat waking from a long nap. The walls around them became the heavy brink arches of a subterranean basement. She paused.

"This is the place. Huh. I work on a ley line."

_Not particularly surprised, Lyds. But… you work _here?

"Yeah, it's not nearly as cool as I thought it would be." She sighed softly and contemplated the brickwork arches that supported the finest research library in the world. All of her ambition to become an archivist, photographing ancient books and preserving delicate texts on film and acid-free paper, and she was all nothing more than an unglorified secretary who took calls and repeated library hours and filed archivists records on the very books that she had signed on to save. She felt him snort in undignified disbelief.

_Shoulda figured. Gods, why can't I hang out with normal people?_ She felt a tug, and she stumbled back into the theater of her own mind, too startled to ask him what he meant. Blinding light engulfed her, and some terrible cacophony of bickering and chattering voices, and then a door slammed shut with a bang.

"Damn. Think you're takin' a taxi back, girlchild. No idea…frickin' Grand Central here…" And then he had to reach out and catch her as she crumpled, his sudden dispossession sending crashing waves of nausea through her.

Lydia put her hands on the floor, the world moving in slow motion as she sank in his embrace. If she had had anything in her stomach, it would have come up, but her body shook with dry heaves until she couldn't draw breath. He was holding her, his cool hands on her forehead, her cheek, and his arms around her. She could hear him swearing, but her eyes were streaming, and she couldn't reply.

Finally her stomach calmed and she just lay limp in his arms and concentrated on breathing. He settled down on the floor with her and stroked her hair and her back, his fingers cool as they crossed over the nape of her neck. "Sorry 'bout that," he mumbled.

"Beetlejuice, I'm going to kill you for this," she mumbled back. "What the hell happened?"

"I didn't know you worked at a frickin'... Lyds, do you know what this place is?" His voice was suspended halfway between disbelief and nervousness.

"The New York City library." She relaxed, spawled as she was halfway across his lap, and closed her eyes, still feeling a bit sick.

"No, not the stupid library—before that!" He waved at the brick foundations that were barely visible in the half-light.

"Geez, calm down, Beej." She lifted herself up slightly and peered around her, consciously realizing where she was for the first time. She gingerly straightened up. "What did you do to me?"

To his credit, he looked a little sheepish. "I stepped out o' you too quick. This place ain't exactly where I thought we'd end up…" He glanced around him, and she followed his eyes, looking perplexed.

"What do you mean?" She settled her chin on her knees, and he slid an arm around her to shore her up a bit. She leaned her head against his shoulder, tired and disoriented.

"Before the library, this was a reservoir. You _do_ know that, don't you?"

She nodded. "Everybody knows that, Beej. The Croton reservoir. They have pictures upstairs."

He snorted. "Sure, except everybody _doesn't_ know what it was before the great city of New York built the damn thing on." He took a breath. "When Manhattan was still just a gleam in some white businessman's greedy little eye, this land was commissioned as a potter's field." His arm tightened around her. "An'then, when the city grew up too big, they _decommissioned _it, and built the reservoir."

She was missing something, she knew. The seriousness in his voice was too unusual to disregard. "So what? What's a potter's field?"

He turned to her in genuine surprise, his green eyes bright even in the darkness. "Potter's field is where they buried the dead that didn't have the money for a stone or a box, Lyds. Anyone could be buried here. Even them without trial, or honest death."

"So this used to be a graveyard?"

He shook his head impatiently. "Not quite there yet, Lyds. The city _decommissioned_ it. Someone wrote up a paper that said it wasn't a graveyard anymore. And they built on it."

Icy realization bloomed in Lydia's breast. "Oh my God. They never removed the bodies."

"God don't have nothin' to do with it." His voice sent chills through her, and she pressed closer against him then, his dubious warmth a great deal more comforting than the cold stone floor. And what was underneath it.


	7. Scared of the Dark

**AN: **Hello again. For those who asked, and as well for those who have wondered, the NYC public library was indeed build on the site of the old Croton Reservoir, which was built on a 'decommissioned' graveyard back in the mid 1800's. It's all true. In fact, if you go into the basement, you can see the old reservoir walls built into the foundation. And yes, Poltergeist scared the hell out of me when i was just a little kid, and i have never quite gotten over it. There's all my dark little secrets for today.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Scared of the Dark**

After a moment of silence, Beetlejuice took Lydia by the arm and pulled her to her feet. She steadied herself and shot him a questioning glance. He looked solemn, but resigned. "Well, we had better get moving an' get out of here as fast as we can. Where's your stuff?"

She pulled herself back to the moment at hand. "Um, it's on the third floor, next to the main reading room. We can take the elevator. I don't know if I feel well enough to use the stairs." He nodded at her, concern shadowing his eyes and mouth, and held out his arm for her, looking awkwardly gallant in the half-light. His eyes glinted, and his vividly blond hair shone with silky highlights. Her brain balked again at the impossibility that he could share the same space as she during a possession, and then the next moment be as solid and real as a living man. As she took his arm, she could feel the muscles of his forearm tighten as he pulled her closer, as well as the velvety texture of the skin on the inside of his arm. Her body told her the lie, though, didn't it? He glanced at her, and she gazed back at him, and immediately felt the tension spark again between them. Anytime they made prolonged eye contact, she felt it. Last time, her nerve had cracked. This time, it was he that looked away first.

That gave her an odd sort of courage, as if seeing that he was also afraid somehow made her fear less so. She gave him a cheeky grin, and he glanced at her, looking more than a little perplexed, and tugged her toward the elevator.

"You know, Beej, you really are the strangest friend I have ever had. Counting my imaginary ones, too." He swung her lightly into the elevator and followed, a deep rumbly chuckle in his chest.

"Yeah, I'm a real pussycat once you get to know me." He grinned darkly at her, and the lights in the elevator flickered. Blithely ignoring the electrical surge, he punched the button for the third floor. The door slid shut, and suddenly Lydia had that odd elevator claustrophobia, magnified a dozen times at least because she was alone with a being she had just confessed, however innocently, that she liked. Granted, she had been alone with him for countless hours. Elevators always made that aloneness seem really really intense. She concentrated on not looking anxious. Beetlejuice just stared at her, which definitely didn't help. Pussycat, indeed. Then the blue florescent light above them flickered violently, and a chill shot up her spine.

"Are you doing that?"

He shook his head carefully, his green eyes still focused on her. The elevator shuddered violently, and stopped moving. And the light popped off with an audible crack, plunging them into complete darkness. Lydia couldn't suppress a scream, and it echoed loudly in the silence. She heard him snort next to her, but she didn't let him go. "You afraid of the dark, Lydia?" His voice was right next to her ear, a rough growl full of mischief.

"No," she whispered.

"You afraid of me?"

His tone made her brindle. "Of course not." She almost believed it, too.

"Then the only thing left in here to be afraid of is yourself." He slid his arm gently out of hers and stepped away, and his green eyes gleamed in the black. And then he must have closed his eyes, because even that light vanished.

"Quit, it, Beej!" Silence. She could feel her heart pounding. "Okay! I'm scared of the dark! Happy?" She felt his arms slide around her from behind and give her a quick squeeze.

"You're a lousy liar," he whispered in her ear. His lips brushed against her earlobe and she shivered. "I'm gonna go check this out, babes." And she felt him go, a pressure change, a breath of wind. His voice echoed in her ears. Lousy liar. But she _was_ afraid of the dark. Especially now, trapped in an elevator by herself, in a building that she had just been informed by someone who should know was built on a desecrated graveyard. The fact that she had come here with a powerful poltergeist should have comforted her, but the entire journey through the leys had rattled her, and all she wanted to do at the moment was burrow under the covers of her own bed with the nightlight on and squeeze shut her eyes so that the monsters couldn't see her.

With a shudder that made her scream again, the elevator restarted, but the light did not come back on. "Beej?" she ventured. But he wasn't there, or wasn't answering. She knew she could make him come by using his true name, but she was afraid to say it aloud. Afraid of who might be listening. So she just stood in the heart of the dark, blood pounding in her ears, praying to whatever god that might be tuned in that she just make it out alive.


	8. Fourth Star of Three

**AN**: It's late, so i promise i'll include translations and such with the next update. Mouse, does this earn me chapter six? ;)**  
**

* * *

**Chapter Eight: The Fourth Star of Three**

The elevator shuddered to a stop, and for a breathless moment, Lydia didn't want the door to open. And then it slid open, revealing the darkened hallway that she had walked a thousand times, and she let out a great sigh. She was being stupid, she knew, but she desperately wanted the night to be over. What had begun as an adventure moderately under her control had spiraled into a nightmare, entirely due to the involvement of her currently missing ex-best friend. She would grab her things, go downstairs and flag down a cab, and go home. And then in the morning, she would pack and go visit her parents. Hadn't she said that she needed a vacation? Oh, no… that had been _him._ Well, she knew exactly who she needed a vacation _from. _

Halfway down the hallway, a strange sound stopped her cold. The sound of furniture being dragged across a floor. She thought of the glossy walnut reading tables, priceless and irreplaceable, that filled the main reading room. A room almost two city blocks in length. Her heart plunged into her shoes and she ran down the gallery hall to the catalog room, fearing more than knowing what she would find.

The heavy doors to the catalog room were closed but unlocked, which was not a good sign. Dashing through the catalog room, she threw open the ornate reading room doors. And skidded to an astonished stop.

The cavernous room was filled with dancers, swinging through a sweeping waltz in the middle of the cleared floor. All of the heavy tables had been stacked one on top of the other against the end of the hall, and the highly polished floor reflected nothing but the soft glow of the moon through the west-facing gallery windows.

Ghosts. The room was filled with dancing ghosts. And as she stood there, shocked into immobility, they all slowed and stopped, and stared directly at her. She swallowed. Then one little ghost, a young girl in a simple homespun dress, shrieked and pointed. "It's her! The girl who sent the bad lady away!"

A familiar cackled tickled her hearing, and her eyes narrowed automatically. But then the ghosts, seemingly as one, burst into a cacophony of cheering and clapping, hooting and laughing. They swarmed around her, reaching out to touch her.

"She defeated the Witch!"

"She's so small! And young! Bahu didn't tell us she was so young!" This from a delicately-featured young male ghost, his skin the color of an old bruise. Lydia smiled hesitantly at him, and he beamed back at her. "Or so pretty," he added, his skin darkening in a purpling blush.

"Al Mankib! Al Mankib! She is here!" squealed the first little girl, running frantically toward the back of the gallery. A gentle looking woman with a motherly smile reached in to hug Lydia.

"Ah, child, you have done us all a great deal of good." She stroked Lydia's cheek and then stepped back, leaving her equal parts pleased and confused.

"I'm sorry. I don't understand. _Beetlejuice _sent her back. He did that. Not me." They all gasped and turned to each other with whispers. _She said his name!_ A dark regal-looking man turned and bowed to her.

"You mean Ardra? We do not use that name which you call him by, lest we sent him away."

"Ardra?" Lydia shook her head, uncomprehending.

A small Chinese ghost, a woman with delicate hands smiled and laughed. "To us he is Shēnsùsì, the Fourth star of Three."

Lydia blinked, trying to absorb all of this. "The Fourth star?"

A very old man, his long white hair hanging down to his waist, took her hand and squeezed it. "It is true that Ied Algueze did capture her in the end. But he told us of your great courage in facing the Bell Witch. Of your fearless sacrifice. For this we honor you." And he bowed to her. Lydia stammered a protest, but the old man just smiled and vanished back into the crowd. Others came to touch her, and to hug her, and she continued to shake her head, confused and embarrassed.

Abruptly, a soft undulating blue light filled the reading room, and all of the ghosts looked up and pointed, smiling and nodding and casting knowing looks back at Lydia. She saw nothing but a small blue globe that dropped from the ceiling to the floor, and then it was obscured by the crowd. Voices became murmurs, as the ghosts took up their dance again, and parted to reveal Beetlejuice standing in the middle of the floor, grinning impishly at her. He was dressed in old-fashioned finery: a long black dress coat with a figured gray silk waistcoat, black trousers, and white tie—he might have stepped out of the pages of a Victorian Vanity Fair, except for the wild blond hair and the opalescent sheen of his skin. Lydia just stared, even further lost for words. He lifted an eyebrow at her, and then cocked his head.

"Won't do, Lyds." She felt a curious buzz of staticky energy surround her, and looked down at herself. A full length crimson skirt fell from her hips into a bell, and the bodice was rich velvet, beaded with glass in elaborate patterns. She felt the weight of it, and smoothed her hands over her hips, not able to stop being delighted for a moment. "Much better." He was right in front of her now, full of mischief but with a curious bashfulness in his eyes. "You look… um. You look pretty, Lydia." She smiled, but narrowed her eyes at him again.

"So this was all one big elaborate joke, Beej? Or should I call you 'The Fourth Star of Three?" She lifted a dainty eyebrow at him, and he had the grace to look slightly abashed. Very slightly.

"Not a _joke_, Lyds… I had to get you here somehow…and you know me—I can't resist a surprise! But, you should have seen your face!" He burst into giggles, and the dignified gentleman image went right out the window. "Oh, Lyds, it was priceless! Your eyes were completely huge!" She scowled darkly at him, thinking over all he had put her through. The intimate possession, the walk in the leys, and the scary story in the basement, and then his leaving her in the dark to find her own way… it had been well played. She shook her head, half in admiration and half in annoyance, and looked up at him. He had a worried glint in his eye now, likely wondering how she would react to his elaborate ruse. She set her hands on his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

"Beej, I am going to beat you senseless with the biggest stick I can find when we get home."

Hope bloomed in his expression. "_We_, Lyds? Does that mean you forgive me? That you like this? You know, they wanted to meet you…"

She couldn't help her smile now. "It means you better be a really good dancer, _Bahu_."

He grinned at her in return, and slid an arm around her waist. "That's Sanskrit, you know."

"Uh huh. Beej, what have you been telling these people about me, anyway? And why do they call you all these different names?"

He looked nervously around him at the ghosts that surrounded them. "Um, later, I promise, I'll tell you everything. Dance with me, now?"

"Everything?"

"All of it."

"And I can beat you with a stick?"

"All this senseless violence!" He swept her out onto the floor, and spun her into a waltz with gentle ease. She laughed, the tension easing away, and her questions forgotten for the moment. Which is what he wanted, anyway.

And he was a good dancer, in his wild way. Lydia soon got accustomed to not quite touching the floor, and as the night went on, the music got stranger and louder, with twists of Asian music, and throbbing African rhythms, making her spin with her arms to the sky and lose herself in the laughter and harmony. She danced with the dark boy who had told her she was pretty, and with many others, male and female alike, but she always ended up back in _his_ arms, her wild, golden-haired poltergeist. Each time he took her back he seemed to hold her closer, and for longer. In fact, he had been holding her, with her head on his shoulder, for quite some time now. Her toes brushed the floor, and she lifted her head and smiled gently at him, and then reached up to stroke back his hair. He closed his eyes at her touch, and a fireflower blossomed in her belly. Before she could process this strange reaction, she realized he was gazing intently at her, his eyes flickering from her eyes to her cheek to her mouth. She laughed nervously.

"You look like your trying to decide whether to have me with white sauce or red, Beej." He looked surprised, and then glanced down at the floor, an impish little boy caught red-handed.

"Sorry—I forget sometimes that I'm a prick."

She flushed, feeling guilty for something that she knew deep down she was right about. But he had taken it such to heart, and that, she had never expected. "I… I don't think you're a prick. Honest. I just said the first thing that popped into my head." She poked at him. "See, you aren't the only one that does that." He smiled at her, just the tips of his gleaming teeth showing, and stroked his thumb over her cheek, pulling her hair back and tucking it behind her ear.

"Are you still in a forgiving mood?" His voice was gruff, and the music and the dance swirled around them as they stood still.

"Depends on the offence."

He rolled his eyes. "This from the woman who has promised to hit me with a stick."

"You think I'm a woman?" Her slow brain finally processed that strange feeling in her belly, and had even put a name to it. Desire. He nodded, all traces of the smile gone now. She shook her head, trembling now. "I'm sorry, but this is a lot to take in all at once, Beej." His shoulders slumped, and he tried to mask a frown.

"Sure." He nodded, frowning openly now. "Sure Lyds. It is a lot. You're a hero. You'll need a costume, an' all…" He faltered as she peered at him, her large brown eyes flashing with ire.

"Will you shut up for once?" She took a deep breath. "And come home with me?" His frown vanished in a look of astonishment, and she had to grin at him. Two times in one night she had rendered him speechless. He nodded at her.

"Um, yeah—okay. Yes. Let me talk to Rahim. Tell him we're… going home." He flashed her a quick, radiant grin, and was gone into the crowd. She suppressed the nervousness. Whatever he thought, they were going to do a lot of talking. He owed her as many answers as she had questions. When he returned a few minutes later, Rahim, the old man with the long white hair, was behind him. Rahim took her hands in his and squeezed them gently, his face wreathed with smiles.

"You are a fine woman, Lydia. You have honored us. I hope you will come back and dance here again?" She nodded, not trusting her voice. "Shall I call you a cab?" She shot him a strange look, and suddenly Beetlejuice looked unaccountably nervous.

"No! I got it, Rahim, old pal." He nodded briskly and took Lydia by the hand, but Rahim stopped him.

"Ied Algueze, you are far from home. Even you cannot carry her so far twice in one night."

Lydia found her voice at this. "He didn't carry me here. We walked the leys." Beetlejuice looked at her, aghast, and then turned frantically back to the old man.

"But, Lydia, you can't use the ghost roads. Only the dead can…" Suddenly, a horrible suspicion shadowed over Rahim's weathered face. "Ied Algueze, you did not do this thing." Beetlejuice stammered out something unintelligible, and shot Lydia a plaintive look. But she was growing a suspicion of her own.

"What thing can't he do, Rahim?" She held up a finger and Beetlejuice fell into a resigned silence.

"What he must have done. I see it now." He nodded soberly. "This was wrong to do. A possession like this, it is very bad."

"Why?" Lydia felt all the warmth of the moment past rush out of her at once.

Rahim turned to her and took her hand. "Lydia, he did not explain this to you. We possess for very few reasons. For domination, some do. Like the Bell Witch did to you. But you do not understand how it feels. To be cold so long and then be warm again, with blood and breath and heart and heat… it is _extremely_ intimate. I would not tell you this if I thought that he would."

Lydia just shook her head, and then looked up at Beetlejuice, who was standing with his eyes closed, his jaw working in frustrated silence. But when Rahim tried to speak again, he held a hand to his mouth. "Alright, old man. " He tried to look Lydia in the eye, and nearly succeeded. "What he's trying… why he's upset, is because he thinks you don't know how I feel about you."

She swallowed, suspended between despair and disbelief. "And how do you feel about me?"

He looked as if he was in physical pain. The room had fallen silent, all eyes trained on the drama unfolding in the center of the room. He glanced around, and then looked again at her eyes. "I… gods, I…love you."

She gaped at him. "You _what_?"


	9. Fine

**ST: **To "House of Flying Daggers."

* * *

**Chapter 9: Fine**

Beetlejuice winced in pain. "Don't make me say it again," he mumbled. "Bad enough as it is."

"Worse than I expected." Rahim stood gravely beside Lydia. "You know that there can be no love between flesh and spirit. It is impossible. You cannot give her anything she needs." He glanced sadly at Lydia, who looked back at him with a questioning expression.

"What I need?"

Rahim nodded, but Beetlejuice heard something in her voice that he had become quite familiar with, and turned to face her, a nervous tremor in his throat. Oblivious, because he did not know her like Beetlejuice knew her, Rahim continued. "Warmth, Lydia. Companionship in time of trouble. Ghosts have no roots, and no restrictions once released from their years-wage. And Ied Algueze, he goes everywhere, and is in everything. Plus, you are alive, and he is not. No matter what, you cannot change him. He cannot give you a family, nor stability, nor contribute in any way to your happiness."

Lydia nodded. "I understand. And I thank you for your caution." She had closed up like a moonflower in the harshness of noon. She bowed politely to Rahim. "Thank you for the lovely party, but I think I need to go home now." He bowed back to her, and Lydia, with a long look at her dejected poltergeist, turned and walked slowly out of the hall. The two ghosts watched her go in silence. And then Beetlejuice turned to his old friend with a scowl on his face.

"You're an old crotchety bastard, Rahim."

"You don't actually think I bought that for a second, do you?" The old man looked up at the young poltergeist with a raised eyebrow.

"Nah." He scuffed the well-polished floor with a boot-toe. "Woulda been a fine game, though."

"She's a fine woman. Not for you."

"No. Not for me. The fine ones never are." He peered out the door, but could no longer see her. "I'll make sure she gets home, at least." He gave Rahim a crooked smile and walked toward the door, tugging his coat off as he went. As it fell, it simply vanished, as did the tie and waistcoat, and then he was out the door and out of sight. Rahim shook his head, feeling some niggling doubt. Ied Algeuze never gave up so easily. But then, love had never been his game. And at least the lady knew, now, never to let him back in again. That was something.

* * *

**  
**

Lydia was in turmoil. She paced up and down in front of the library, not knowing what to do. Beetlejuice's confession had left her near tears, and in a bare few minutes time she had come from the acknowledgement that she felt something other than friendship for him to the realization that he was actually telling her the truth, for once. She had felt it. And it terrified her. But not for the reasons that Rahim had listed. No, she was terrified because she had _wanted_ it to be true. But she had fought against him so bitterly, and for so long. They had been enemies, and then they had been enemies united by a common cause. After that, they had just been united in uneasy truce. Because she carried his true name, she had lost the ability to banish him, an oversight that Juno had not yet discovered and taken steps to correct. And he had been laying low, not wanting to get noticed.

But even though he had his freedom, he had never strayed far from her side. Oftentimes she would fall asleep and wake and he would have not moved at all. Initially it had struck her as immensely annoying, as she was embarrassed at the thought of his watching her sleep. But gradually she had come to depend on him as he kept watch for her. When she slept in an empty apartment, she slept less soundly. And when the nightmares came, he had always been there to hold her, and whisper soothing murmurings against her ear, or her neck, or wherever his mouth had come to rest. The memory sent shivers through her.

And no matter the abuse they heaped on each other, somehow she always accepted him back, always ended up curled up against him as if he were a dog, solid and comforting. She had fallen asleep more than once like that, tucked into him as he stroked her hair. And he had always been so undemanding, and the process so gradual, that she had never stepped back to think about how very _not him_ his behavior was.

Now she knew. And it was her own fault that she had been the slow one, completely oblivious. She rested her head in her hands, not even capable of summoning the energy to try and flag down a cab at this late hour, not even sure if she cared that she had no easy way of getting home.

"Need a ride?" His soft, gruff voice startled her. She looked up at him, taking in his uncertain expression and defensive body language, as well as the definite lack of coat, waistcoat, and tie, and recognizing from this how well she actually knew him.

"Does it involve anything illegal?"

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small black ball, shook it, and then flipped it over and peered at the little window. "Without a doubt." He looked at the ground. "'Cause I don't have any money to… pay for a cab. Forgot my wallet."

"You have a wallet?" She felt a smile curling at the corners of her mouth. "You have a magic 8-ball?"

"No to the first. And yes to the second. Sometimes I need help with makin' decisions. " He met her eyes, not hopeful, but not hopeless, either. She reached out and took the toy from his hand, her fingertips brushing against his. Shaking the 8-ball as hard as she could, she closed her eyes, and then looked at the little window.

"Outlook not so good." She raised an eyebrow slightly.

He looked at her curiously. "What was the question?"

"Will I be able to flag down a cab at this time of night?" She grinned softly at him, and he chuckled gently, and then took the 8-ball back and shook it vigorously.

"Concentrate and ask again." His eyes found some of their customary sparkle. He tried again. "Reply hazy. Try again." She wasn't able to stifle a laugh at his playfully frustrated expression.

"What was the question?"

He looked carefully at her, and a bolt of heat lanced through her stomach. "Reply hazy. Ask again."

"What was the question?" She swallowed, feeling suddenly very bare. He reached out and stroked her cheek with a fingertip.

"Will you let me take you home?"

She looked at him for a moment, her mind swept completely blank in the aftermath of a touch that had never carried so much depth as it did at that moment, and then she nodded. He stepped into her space, and slipped his arms around her, facing her for a long moment before he tucked her head gently into the crook of his neck. She closed her eyes as he settled his hand on the back of her head and pulled her tightly against him.

"Lydia." His voice was a dark whisper against her cheek. "Whatever you do, don't let go."

The world shattered into a brilliant aurora glow.


	10. The Same

**AN: **This is the last chapter of _this_ story. When posted on Glow, it might be a little... longer. This is intended as the second part of three, so I hope that you have all sorts of unanswered questions ;). Hugs and kisses to wee-me, to Anna McNarin, to my midnight companion author Mouse, and to Wanda-- this is by far the most difficult story i have written here or anywhere, and i owe you all for keeping my spirits up. Okay, here goes!

**ST: **_In My Time of Dyin'_ by the Be Good Tanyas.

* * *

**Chapter Ten: The Same**

Lydia actually lost consciousness for a moment from the strain of traveling the wormhole. She was limp in his arms when they popped out into her apartment, and he laid her gently on the bed, cursing himself for a fool and fretting over her hair and clothes until she opened her eyes. "What the hell happened, B?" Her voice was weak. Lack of food, the stress and exertion, not to mention that he had scared her half to death, then confessed that he loved her, and then let her walk away… well, it was a miracle she was even alive, really.

"Just a wormhole. Lyds. Seemed the quickest way…"

"Beej, if you're trying to kill me, just please get it over with." She covered her eyes with her hand, and then turned over and curled up into a little ball. "I can't take anything else right now."

He cast around for some way to make this night up to her. "Howabout some food?"

Lydia perked up a little at that. "Is the Chinese place around the corner still open?" she mumbled hopefully. He grinned.

"Twenty-four hours, babe. I'll be back in a flash." And he was gone, without having to ask her what she wanted. She knew that he would come back with shrimp fried rice and crab rangoons, and couple pairs of chopsticks, and they would share from the little folded box, not even bothering with plates. That is how it had been with them, on many nights. Would that change now? When Rahim had openly condemned any possible relationship they might have, just when she was coming to entertain the notion?

Who the hell was Rahim anyway?

* * *

Lydia woke to the delicious smell of piping hot Chinese food. Her old quilt had been pulled up over her shoulders, and the soft light of a golden sky was filtering in her shuttered windows. Beetlejuice wasn't in his customary place by the window, but the little carton of hot soy goodness was waiting unopened on a fold-out tray table. She climbed muzzily out of bed, trying to remember at what point she had fallen asleep. Her body felt heavy and sluggish. "Beej?" Her stomach felt hollow. "What time is it?" 

"Geez, Lyds—I thought you were gonna sleep forever." The poltergeist drifted into view, peering at the watch on his wrist. He shook it, scowled, and then looked back at the clock on the microwave. "Six-thirty."

"Oh! Well, it's still early…" She tried to focus on him as he grinned at her and shook his head.

"At _night, _Lyds. You slept all day."

"All day?" She ran her hand through her hair, and the cobwebs cleared a bit. "Lemme shower."

"Need help?" He had a towel slung over his arm, and looked absurdly hopeful. She grinned blearily.

"No. Can I have my towel, please?"

"Maybe." She snatched it off his arm as she walked by, and he adopted an injured expression. "Hey!"

"Not now, Beej. I need to wake up, and eat, and _then_ you can play games." She paused by the door to the bathroom. "Wait, no. I didn't just say that. Forget I said that. No more games."

"Not even checkers?" She closed the door in his face. "Fine! Whatever!" But he did not try to invade her shower, which she took in as a sign of new strangeness between them. A few minutes later, feeling both refreshed and starving, she came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her, and with a blush of shyness saw that Beetlejuice was sitting on the bed, in t-shirt and jeans, his well-defined shoulders and wild hair traced around with sunset glow. He studied her solemnly, and she had that same sensation of bareness that she had felt right before he had brought her home. Nervously, she walked to the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, but then fled back into the bathroom to change, his eyes warm on her retreating back.

They ate in silence as well. He seemed content to watch her, and she fumbled with the chopsticks, dropping rice and little cubed vegetables on the bedcovers. Finally, when the silence became too heavy to bear, she asked the only question she could think to ask.

"Is this… has everything changed now?"

He shrugged uncomfortably, glancing down for the first time. "Dunno, Lyds. But all this quiet is makin' me nervous."

She gaped at him. "You're just _now_ nervous?" An incredulous laugh escaped her throat. "I've been nervous since… since you first possessed me! Like… 24 hours ago!"

"Why?" His intense green eyes seemed lit from the inside.

She set aside her food, and tucked her hands under her crossed legs. "I just don't understand any of this, B." But before she could continue with what was apparently going to be a really long list, Beetlejuice leapt forward and grabbed on to her knees.

"You don't have to, Lyds. Just for a minute, will you just stop _thinking?_" He had never pleaded with anyone in his life, and it felt strange. She paused, wrinkling up her forehead for a moment, and then nodded, her eyes clear and focused.

"Okay."

"Wha—?" He didn't even have a chance to ask, so quickly did she react, and lunge across the space between them, wrapping her arms around him and knocking him over, her mouth pressed against his. It took his shocked mind a moment to catch up, but in that moment her hands were already under his shirt, tugging it untucked, and the heat of her hands and mouth were seeping into him. He grasped the back of her neck and slipped his other hand under the hemline of her t-shirt, instinctively rolling her over, but she fought him, her knees on either side of his hips.

"Oh, no, Beej. Answers first." Her eyes were crinkled in mischief, and she kissed him again, long and slow and deep, until he surrendered underneath her. She felt his fast warming lips quirk in a grin, and she pulled back slightly so that she could see his face, amused and full of wonder.

"What… what's the question?"

"Did you know that you loved me the first time you possessed me?" Her eyebrow quirked slightly, and he grinned more broadly, teeth gleaming, his eyes fixed on hers.

"Yep. Mostly. Pretty much."

"Pretty much?" She kissed the place where his jaw met his neck, and his skin was like velvet there. He rippled underneath her, and a sigh escaped him.

"Possession tends to… ah, bring things into focus." He sounded a little breathless. "I knew I loved you _after_ I possessed you."

"Ah." She nodded, and kissed him in the same place on the other side. His hands tightened on her reflexively. "So, right before you dropped me, then?"

He had to think for a moment. "Just about then, yep." He tried to pull her down to him, but she resisted, bracing herself until he abandoned that tactic. She was grinning openly now, and she darted down to kiss his nose, and then his forehead

And then she sat up, her weight pressed evenly against his hipbones, and crossed her arms over her breast. His hands settled on her thighs as he watched her warily. "So when you possessed me again, and then scared me to death in the basement… when you abandoned me in the elevator, and all the time in-between when you were plotting against me… you knew that you loved me?"

"Um…" He shifted uncomfortably beneath her, looking all of the sudden like a butterfly pinned on a board. She raised both eyebrows now and peered down at him. He chewed at his bottom lip pensively, but saw no way out of it. "Yeah," he admitted, finally. "I loved you through all of that."

Her expression had lost some of its levity, but she reached down and took one of his hands in both of hers. "Is this how it's always going to be, Beetlejuice?"

Her hands were hot against his, and the pulse from the veins in her thighs pounded heavily against his hips. He knew that their almost-beginning relationship would live or die on what he said to her next. But he couldn't concentrate while the heat of her kiss lingered, while the thrum of her heart filled him to bursting. He couldn't think of a single thing that would guarantee that she would stay. So he just told her the truth. "Yeah."

She nodded slowly, her hands tightening on his. "Good."

"Good?" He was thoroughly puzzled. "How is that good?"

She smiled at him then. "Because if you were planning on changing for me, I would've had a bit of trouble believing this might actually work."

"Work?" He must have looked dazed, because she laughed outright.

"Beej, can you do me a favor?" He only nodded dumbly, unable to process what had just happened. Lydia put a small hand over his cheek. "Stop thinking." It was the only request she could have made of him that he could have actually followed, when next her back arched as she bowed down and took his lower lip between her teeth, sucking gently. Everything else could wait.

He didn't wait for her to escape this time, but slipped his hands around her head and waist and knocked her off balance with a deft shift of his hips. She squeaked in protest, but he was on top of her in a flash, pinning her down and grinning like a ravenous predator. "Sure, Lyds. But you might be afraid of what's left." He sank down on to her and kissed her hard, teeth and lips, with her hands so tight around his back that she would have left a mark, had he been flesh. She arched into him, tilting back her head, and whispered his name.

He would never be able to recall if she had spoken his cursed name or his true. From her lips, they both sounded the same.


End file.
